


Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

by libbertyjibbit



Series: TMA October Prompt Fills [7]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bitching, Drugging, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:47:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27317242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libbertyjibbit/pseuds/libbertyjibbit
Summary: Martin knows that he should be feeling something about finding Jon on his doorstep, armed with tea and a nervous expression, but anything he might have once felt is trapped behind a wall of his own making. That's about to change.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: TMA October Prompt Fills [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949629
Comments: 15
Kudos: 78





	Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day 31 of Kinktober.

Martin isn't surprised when he opens his door to find Jon on the other side, sheepish smile on his face and two steaming paper cups in his hands. Well, no, he is surprised, a little, but the surprise is dim, held behind the wall that so many of his emotions are held behind these days. He knows they are there, but they aren't accessible. So very many things aren't accessible to him now. He thinks that it should worry him, but the worry, like so much else, is faint.

Still. "What do you want?" he asks, and somewhere inside he is wincing at the way the words come out of his mouth, hating himself for the way that Jon flinches as if struck, but he doesn't take the words back. Instead he simply stands there, waiting, as Jon shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, clearly caught off guard.

Finally he clears his throat and lifts up the cups. "I brought tea," he says. "I know you've said - I trust you. I just, I miss you."

Something seeps underneath the wall, some flicker of emotion that dances along his nerves, stinging. Martin pushes it down. He can't afford this.

"Jon-"

"Five minutes," Jon says, voice pleading in a way that Jon never is, and Martin sighs. Jon's lips twitch when he does; he knows he's won. Martin steps back and lets him in.

"Thank you," Jon says, clearly relieved. He stands awkwardly for a moment, juggling the cups in his hands, and then offers them both out to Martin. "I wasn't sure - there's one with milk and one without. I, uh, I forgot how you take it."

In all the time that they've known each other, Jon has never made Martin tea. There is no reason for him to know how Martin takes it, no way for him to have cared. It might have mattered then, but now Martin doesn't see why it should.

"Milk," is all he says, and Jon hands over one of the cups. Martin sips, and has to fight a grimace. It's sweet, too sweet, another reminder that Jon really doesn't know him at all.

"Is it - do you like it?" Jon asks, watching him closely, and Martin, perhaps in deference to his old self, smiles and takes a bigger sip, nodding.

"It's fine," he says, and Jon relaxes.

"Good. That's, that's good." Jon fidgets with his own cup, passing it from hand to hand. He lifts it to his mouth then brings it back down without drinking. "And, uh, how - how are you? How are things with Lukas?"

Martin shakes his head. "I can't -"

"I know, I know. You can't tell me what you're doing. I respect that, I do, I just -" he fixes his eyes on Maritn's face and makes a frustrated noise. Martin might have helped him once, might have tried to make this easier, but now he's content to watch. To sip at his oversweet tea and wait for Jon to spit out what he wants to say. He's curious whether he'll figure it out by the time that the tea is gone - he only intends to let Jon stay for as long as it lasts, and Jon's transparent attempts to prolong things by not touching his own drink aren't going to work.

It would be nice, he thinks, to be able to be touched by this. Nice to take any sort of pleasure in Jon's clear desire to be around him. But there's no point, not anymore.

Jon's jaw works, and he turns away.

Martin sighs. He's tired. It's been a long day, and all he really wants to do is curl up on his bed and sleep. He yawns, and Jon turns back at the sound. His brow furrows.

"You're - you look exhausted. We should - here." And Jon walks up to Martin, splays a hand across his lower back, and leads him to the sofa. It’s proprietary, that touch, possessive, and Martin sends Jon a curious glance even as he follows the gentle nudges and sits. Jon has never touched him this way. It isn’t appropriate, even alone as they are. Once Martin wouldn’t have cared.

“Sorry,” Jon says, cheeks flushing. He pulls his hand away from Martin and sits next to him, too close. Martin can feel his body; a line of heat that is trying its best to warm up Martin’s chilled skin. At a loss, he takes another sip of his tea. He seems to be getting used to the cloying sweetness; it barely even registers this time.

They sit in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, quietly sipping their tea. Finally Martin finds that he can’t take it any longer; he’s found comfort in solitude lately but this, this is too much. He can feel Jon’s regard, feel his sidelong glances and knows he wants to say something, but every time he starts he stops, and Martin can’t stand it.

“What?” he snaps finally, nettled. He doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like the way that Jon being here is letting things creep under the wall, letting thoughts that Martin swore to himself he didn’t want, didn’t need crowd once more into his mind. He doesn’t want this.

Jon bites his lip and sets his tea down on the table. “Right. Right, I-“ he sighs. “I know what’s going on between you and Lukas, and Martin, you can’t.”

Martin feels his stomach drop. “Can’t what?” he asks, but he knows what. Of course he knows. He knows he should be panicked. As removed from everything as he is Jon finding out what he’s doing has always been his greatest fear. He knows Jon will want to stop him and he can't let him. Not when he’s so close. But instead of feeling panicked he just feels exhausted. Worn out and helpless.

“I have to,” he says, and his voice sounds far away. Small and unsure and everything he’s told himself he can’t be anymore. Timid.

“No, you don’t,” Jon says, and he sounds so sure, so determined. Martin wants to tell him, then, wants to explain that what he’s doing is good, is right. He can help. But his tongue feels thick in his mouth, too thick to get the words out.

  
“I-“ he says, trying anyway, and then stops, because he isn’t sure what he wants to say. His brain feels fuzzy, disconnected, and he realizes that he’s listing to the side, the cup of tea nearly spilling over.

Jon is watching him closely, far too closely, and Martin focuses on him with difficulty. “Jon?” he says, voice thick, slurred. “Jon, what is-what did you do?”

Jon’s cheeks go red but he tilts his chin up, defiant. “What I had to,” he says, and Martin wants to fight him, wants to tell him that he didn’t have to do anything, that he could have tried talking to him, but his eyes are closing and his body is sinking into the couch, and the last thing he knows is Jon taking the cup of tea from his unresisting fingers.

Martin blinks awake. His mouth tastes awful and feels dry and cottony, and his entire body feels oddly heavy. There is a blurry figure standing next to him, and Martin blinks again, trying to focus. It takes a few blinks before the blurry shape resolves into Jon, a few more before Martin can read the expression on his face, but when he does he feels himself grow cold.

“Jon,” he says, and he’s aiming for reasonable but his voice is too high pitched. “Jon, what are you doing?”

“What I have to,” Jon says again, and his voice is soft and almost regretful but his eyes are hard. Determined.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Martin says, and tries to roll away, to get to his feet, but he can’t move. “Jon,” he says again, voice shaking. “Jon, what’s-“

“It’s okay,” Jon says. He pets Martin’s hair, and Martin feels the touch prickle along his skin, the sensation starting in his scalp and moving down his arms, his legs. He wants to twitch away – he doesn’t like this feeling, doesn’t want it – but of course he can’t. He’s forced to lie there and suffer Jon’s hand on him, suffer the warmth that he’s infusing into his body.

“I know what Lukas wants from you,” Jon continues, still stroking Martin’s hair as though Martin wants it, as though he’s pressing into it rather than trying desperately to pull away. “He wants to trap you.”

“That’s not –“

“I know he’s an omega,” Jon says, and Martin’s mouth shuts so fast that his teeth click together. “He’s been using that, hasn’t he? Using your instincts against you.”

“Yes,” Martin says, then, “no.” Both are true. Peter has been using Martin's alpha instincts against him but he hasn’t made him bond, hasn’t forced him that far. They haven't even shared a heat; Peter preferring to be alone. It might be part of Peter's plan, Martin thinks - it's likely that it is - but it doesn’t matter. Martin doesn't care if he's tied to Peter forever so long as he.

There’s no way to tell Jon any of this, however. Jon doesn’t want to hear it, won’t ask the question that will force the truth out of him. His eyes when he looks at Martin are frantic, lit from within by an almost fanatical light.

“I know how to fix it,” he says, half-breathless. “I know how to make it so he can’t have you.” He strokes over his own chest and then his hand moves lower, and Martin’s eyes widen as he realizes that they’re both naked. Jon’s hand curves around his prick, which is hard and ready, already leaking precome. “I can make you mine,” he says, and tilts his head back, sighing as he strokes himself faster./p>

“Jon, stop,” Martin says, voice trembling. “Whatever you’re doing, you need to stop. I need you to stop.”

Jon doesn’t stop. He continues to stroke himself, eyes locked on Maritn’s face, and Martin feels his own body responding, feels his own cock start to fill with blood the longer that he has Jon’s intense gaze on him. His body is warming, heating up, and it hurts. It hurts, and he wants it to stop, but he also wants it to go on. He’s always wanted Jon’s full attention, after all. Even now, he wants it.

Jon makes a pained noise, hips jerking, and a moment later Martin feels warm come splash against his chest.

Jon pulls a shaking hand through the mess on Martin’s chest, rubbing it into his skin. He brings his filthy hand to Martin’s mouth. Martin presses his lips closed and shakes his head, but Jon will not be denied. He pries open Martin’s mouth and forces his fingers in, rubbing them over Martin’s tongue, against his gums, the insides of his cheeks.

Martin thinks briefly about biting down, but if he does it will hurt Jon, and he doesn’t want to hurt him. Instead he tries to turn his head, tries to spit the fingers out, but Jon won’t let him. He rubs them inside Martin’s mouth over and over, until all traces of his come – slightly bitter – have faded and all Martin can taste is skin.

“Good,” Jon says when all traces of come are off of his fingers. “That’s good; it’s exactly what you have to –“ he shakes his head and runs one of his spit slicked fingers over Martin’s lips. “I don’t know how long this will take,” he says. “I couldn’t see that far. But I know it’ll be easier if you don’t fight. That’s why I – I hope it was enough.”

“You drugged me,” Martin says, sluggish mind finally catching up. “Put something in the tea.” It makes a sick kind of sense now – the hesitant way that Jon had offered the cups, the way he’d refrained from drinking any himself, the way he’d watched every sip Martin had taken.

“Yes,” Jon says. “I knew you wouldn’t agree, not if I. So I did what I had to do.” He’s touching himself again, moving the hand that is covered in Martin’s saliva over his already hardening cock. “Once it’s over you’ll see,” he says. Martin isn’t so sure.

Jon comes on Martin over and over, each time smearing it into his skin before feeding him whatever is left on his hand, and at some point Martin gives in. His mouth opens obediently for Jon’s fingers and he sucks with something like abandon as his skin tingles and his cock throbs, aching to be touched.

He loses himself to it until his body begins to shake. The prickling sensation in his skin gets worse and worse, and he feels like his very bones are vibrating. He feels his body break out in gooseflesh, feels himself start to sweat. His stomach lurches and something inside of him shifts, changes. It feels wrong. His arse flexes, and he feels something slick leak out of him, running down his legs. His eyes fly open and he gasps, suddenly terrified.

“Jon?” he says, voice high and trembling. “Jon, what -?”

“Shh,” Jon says, and strokes his hand through Martin’s sweaty hair. “It’ll be all right.”

It isn’t all right. Heat flares through Martin’s body and he arches, crying out, back bowing and fingers curling into helpless fists. His body jerks, then jerks again. He’s so hot, it feels like his body is burning up from the inside out. The smells in the room grow sharper. He can smell the come on him, smell alpha all over him and he wants. He _wants._

“Jon,” he says again, voice pleading. “Jon, please, please.”

Jon makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, and he moves, climbing on top of Martin, sudden sweet pressure against him and he sobs with relief. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, Jon, yes.” He opens his legs and oh god, oh he’s so wet, so ready, he can feel it, feel the way his body has prepared itself for Jon and in some dim way he realizes that he can move, can shove Jon off and run, can try to find a way to reverse what Jon's done to him but all he wants to do is draw Jon closer, pull him inside. To ease the ache.

Jon slides in so easily, so perfectly that it almost doesn’t seem real, and Martin curls his legs around him, pushes his heels against Jon’s back and pulls him in deeper, arching his hips to get him as far in as he can. The wall that he’d so carefully build is smashed to pieces; he can practically see the rubble around them as Martin finds himself nearly overwhelmed by how Jon makes him feel. Everything he’d held back, everything he’d told himself he didn’t feel anymore, all of it hits him at once and he cries out, arching into Jon as he comes and comes, body flying apart in Jon’s embrace.

Martin has barely come down before he feels Jon fist a hand in his hair, pulling his head back. Jon clamps his teeth down on Martin’s neck, biting down and drawing blood, and Martin cries out as he comes again, far too soon. It hurts but he doesn't care. He welcomes it the way he welcomes everything Jon wants to give him: without reservation. He feels Jon’s knot swelling inside of him and sighs happily, sinking back into the sofa, letting Jon rest his weight on him as his hips twitch faintly, the knot growing a bit smaller each time as it empties into Martin’s body. Martin wonders if it will quicken inside him, if what Jon's done to him will make it more likely or less. He hopes it happens. If not now, then the next time. Already he can feel his body growing warm again, gearing up for another round.

There’s a buzzing in the back of Martin’s mind, something that sounds like the faintest of screams, but Martin ignores it. This is right, being here with Jon like this. It feels perfect, feels like something he’s waited his whole life for.

“You’re mine now,” Jon says, and Martin nods, tucking his head under Jon’s chin. He never wants to leave.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this, please consider letting me know. :)


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